


hook and line

by intomordor



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cocaine, Deputy Derek Hale, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Dealing, Explicit Language, Heroin, Hospitalization, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Methamphetamine, Mild Gore, Rehabilitation, Sexual Content, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-06 13:00:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1858920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intomordor/pseuds/intomordor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>See the bad thing about heroin addiction, Stiles thinks, is that no one actually tells you how fucking <i>good</i> it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *********MAJOR TRIGGER WARNINGS***********
> 
> DRUGS. 
> 
> The majority of these characters are not my own. The views expressed in here are not my own.

See the bad thing about heroin addiction, Stiles thinks, is that no one actually tells you how fucking _good_ it is.

 Sprawled out on some nameless junkie’s couch with a 30 gauge plunged loosely into the crook of his elbow, Stiles is still able to feel the quick electricity of the first high pulsing underneath his skin, that moment when everything swims out of focus and is replaced by a warm, golden feeling. Something sharply-soft, _prickly_ almost or...something. No one can ever really explain the pleasure of it. The simple, unadulterated _joy_ of being high. He’s swimming in it.

 “Budge up, kid.” Someone shoves at his legs and he can feel each individual nerve ending in his body jolt and light up. “I think Kelly needs to sit down.”

 “Kelly can _fuck off_.” He mumbles, lips melting away from him. He doesn’t know long he’d been in this position; he just knows he doesn’t want to _move_. Someone laughs and he finds himself lying in a heap on the floor next to the couch. 

 “Shiiiiiiit, you’re bleeding.” Stiles peers at his left arm and sees a small stream of blood running down it, the needle twisted up at a 90 degree angle now. “Fuck, that’s gonna track. Sorry.”

 “S’okay.” He plucks it out one handed and grimaces, “I’ve got nowhere else to go anyway.” He thinks of his dad back in Beacon Hills; the look on his face when he came home last time, the cold bite in his voice when he told him not to come back. He’d been high as a kite then--or ever since-- so it’s never anything but a dull ache to him. He’s found better things to surround himself with anyway. “I can wear long sleeves.” He says belatedly.

 “You come here often?” There are two guys perched above him on the couch, Kelly (a frequent presence in this shithole of an apartment) is leaned up against the other, eyes fluttering back in his head. The one speaking has shaggy black hair and thick stubble, the darkest eyes he’s ever seen. “I’m Raj.”

 “Stiles.” He moves his arm to shake hands but Raj just steadies his wrist, pressing the corner end of his jacket to his forgotten bleeding wound. _Right._ “Yeah, I guess you could say I’m here often.”

 Raj helps pull him back on the sofa and props him up against his other side. He can feel the heat of him pressing through his t-shirt and he flushes slightly. “I’ve heard your name around before. You deal?”

 Stiles shrugs, “Not really. A bit. I used to but now…” _Now he needs it too much. Now the money never lasts so there isn’t much of a point._ “I’m kind of over it.” He feels another wave of pleasure crest in him and he shivers.

 Raj quirks his mouth, “Just using now?” He doesn’t _look_ stoned but Stiles can’t really tell sometimes. Everyone takes it differently and Raj’s eyes are very dark.

 Do you use?” He asks at the same time Raj says “You ever try meth?”

 They grin at each other.

 Raj jerks his head over towards one of the unoccupied bedrooms. Stiles knows it’s unoccupied because he can vaguely remember Tom stumbling out of it earlier and murmuring something about vending machines and parking tickets before slamming the front door. “Wanna go somewhere more private?” He rubs his thumb along the inseam of Stiles’ jeans.

 It turns out that Raj distributes crystal meth for one of the head kingpins in southern California and he also likes to give head when he’s high.

 Stiles doesn’t have a problem with either of these things.

 

* * *

 

It starts with a party Scott drags him to when he's sixteen and more interested in video games than the buzz of alcohol. He’s not going to say he was a _good_ kid back then, because he still broke into his dad’s crime scenes and shoplifted a shit ton of games from gamestop and smoked way too many bowls with Scott; but doing hardcore drugs was never on the table those days. Up until that night, he’d never even been--or wanted to go--to a party before. But Scott had heard that Allison--some new girl he was obsessed with--was going to be there and he wanted to impress her. So he went along for the ride because that was how him and Scott worked. Where one went, the other followed.

 (Sometimes, in between fixes, he misses Scott so terribly he can hardly breathe)

 They go to the party, Stiles wearing his best flannel over a faded Star Trek shirt and Scott’s hair done up with too much hair gel. And get supremely drunk. After the first two hours or so Scott fucks off upstairs to tenderly make-out with Allison and leaves Stiles sitting alone outside by the pool on his fifth cup of beer. He's flicking various pebbles and sticks into the water when a girl with purple hair stumbles next to him and falls into his lap.

 “Oof.” She steadies herself, nails digging into his arm. He wraps his other arm around her waist to keep her from falling in. “Ha, sorry!” She giggles, pupils blown so wide he can hardly see the ring of blue around them.

 “No, no, I don’t mind.” He doesn't know how to talk to girls yet. Is just starting to figure out he’s interested in a more masculine form anyway. Though, that doesn't seem to matter at the moment because of the way she's pressing down on him _just right._ “I’m er, Stiles. Stilinski. Stiles Stilinski.”

 She leans towards his ear, almost whispering, “Nice to meet you, I’m Kit. Why’re you out here alone?”

 “My, _ah_ , arguably loyal best friend ditched me for a girl.” He fumbles awkwardly with his drinking cup. Not able to correctly bring it up to his mouth with how far back Kit is sagging against him. “He was the one that forced me to come here in the first place and I don’t know anyone else, so.” He trails off. “Is uh, Kit short for something? Like Katherine?”

 She hums happily, “You’re kind of cute, Stills.” Then starts to circle her hips on top of him in a slow grind. Which, okay. “ _Reallllly_ cute.”

 He doesn't have the heart, or adequate blood flow to his brain, to correct her on his name. “Um.”

 “I think you think _I’m_ cute too.” She grins into his neck, mouthing over his pulse point sloppily.

 “I- I think that you’re _drunk_. So you should probably stop.” He states hysterically, leaning away from the onslaught of her tongue which weirdly enough started to trail across his chin. “And- I’m trying to like, protect your virtue.”

 She suddenly exhales right into his face, _ew_. “Haven’t had a drink all night, see?” She pulls herself off his lap and stands up, holding out a hand. Like he could depend on her ability to pull him up when she fell down roughly 5 minutes ago. Though her breath didn’t _seem_ to have any alcohol on it. “I want to show you something.”

 Stiles finishes off the last dregs of his drink and thinks  _fuck it_ because he's sixteen now and starting on the lacrosse team and the most he’s ever done is peck his friend Harley on the lips as a dare. “Okay, yeah.” He rolls over to his side and pushes himself up, the ground swaying underneath him. It was the first time he’d drunk this heavily and he hadn’t felt it so much sitting down but standing...geez. “I’m like, really, really, _drunk_.” He declares. Kit grabs his hand.

 “Let’s go to my car. It’s right across the street.”

 He must’ve blacked out for a bit because next thing he's in her Camry with his shirt off and she's digging around for something in her jacket pocket. He can see the aftermath of lipstick smeared all over his collarbones and his nipples pebbling up because she hadn’t turned the heat on, also he suspects she might have been trying to suck on them. He shivers.

 “Aha!” She's holding up a small ziplock baggie of white powder that she’d dug out of her pocket. “Wanna bump?”

 “W-what? What are you talking about?” She produces a mirror out of the glovebox and a mcdonalds drinking straw.

 “You ever try coke?”

 “My dad is a _sheriff_.” He slurs. Blinking at her in exasperation, “Of course I haven’t done, I haven’t...tried _that_!”

 “It’s supposed to be really good when you’re drunk, that’s what my brother told me. Make’s you even more high.” Kit shakes the powder out on to the surface of the mirror, it actually being more of a thick, yellowish color up close. There’s a methodical pattern in the way she breaks it so it isn't as crumbly and sweeps it into two straight lines with her driver’s license. “Seriously, you won’t regret it.”

 “I, um.” He's at a loss for words. Maybe if he was sober he’d be out of the car already, but by now she has a hand balanced on his thigh and all he can feel is the hot press of her palm against denim. His dick jumps to attention. “I don’t know.”

 She shrugs, “I mean, you don’t have to. You’ll just be missing out.” She puts the edge of the straw against the top of one of the lines and plugs up one nostril, easing the end of the plastic into her other one. She inhales deeply and chases the last hints of powder down to the bottom of the mirror, coughing a bit as it goes down her throat. “ _Oh, fuck, that’s so fucking good._ ” Her eyes are watering as she leans back in her seat and laughs, sounding lighter than she had before. “ _Fuck_.” She clenches her hands around the bottom of her skirt, as if she has to hold on to something, and lifts it up slightly. Almost like an invitation.

 I mean, a little couldn’t hurt right? It’s not like he’d get addicted off of one hit. It could just be a party thing. And if anyone found out he could just say he was drunk. Because, well, _he is_.

 “Alright, yeah. I’ll try it.” He says, plucking the straw up from where it fell down on the console. He jams the side that isn’t dusted in powder up into his nose and grimaces.

 “Don’t shove it up into your brain, _jesus_.” She laughs distractedly, hands trembling a bit when they help him position the straw, “Lightly, lightly. There you go. Now, you have to snort hard, okay? Or else it’ll just burn your nose out. You have to get it in your throat.” He nods, his fingers trembling from nerves. He feels disturbingly more sober in this moment, lining the straw up with the edge of coke. Then he inhales the line sharply before he can think about it and-

  _Fire._

 He can feel the drugs slam into the back of his throat.  He snorts again to get the rest out of his nose, which is burning like _hell_. “Ahhh-”

 “Plug your nostrils.” Kit says from somewhere far away and he does, tilting his head back for good measure, which helps lessen the _horrible pain_ a bit. The burn begins to numb from the drugs and then-

 Then it's like tidal wave after tidal wave of pleasure. Like being trapped in an endless orgasm and the taste of pizza and the feeling of being rolled up in blankets and fireworks-- _lots of fireworks_ , bursting and incessant behind his eyelids. It's like accomplishing all of the homework he’s ever had in his life, like beating a video game, like staying home from school, like, like _sex_. It's...it's...

He felt fucking _fantastic_. Indestructible. Like he owned the fucking world.

“ _Mother of fuck_.” His pulse thrums erratically under his skin and he's  _warm_ in the best way possible.

At some point, Kit had leaned over the console and started sucking noisy lovebites into the side of his neck, “There’s nothing like the first time, huh? I still remember mine.” She undoes the buckle of his jeans, “Come on, we gotta do it fast, okay? Before the high catches up with your dick.” Stiles nods, belatedly, somewhere between the blowjob and the part where she bangs her head against the sunroof while climbing on top of him.

He never really remembers much of the sex, or if he even came, but he’ll never forget that feeling clawing it’s way through his system. How _blissful_ life seemed during that moment. He wants to write a song about it, to sail out into the ocean or jump out of a plane, he wants to run through the forest and howl at the _moon_.

He's practically frozen to death when Scott finds him a few hours later, lying near the sidewalk across the street with Kit’s number programmed into his phone. “ _If you’re ever up for another hit,_ ” She'd said with a wink, buckling her bra back over her breasts, “ _Or if you just want to get naked again_.” She cut him another line before speeding off in her car and he collapsed shirtless and worn out in someone’s front yard. Even Scott’s hysterical threats and tears and declaration of ‘ _I thought you were dead, Stiles._ ’ couldn’t bring him down. Nothing could bring him down now.

He’d called her two days later.

 

* * *

 

They’re holed up in some swanky hotel in San Francisco for the night, Raj splayed out nude and cranky on the bed. He’s mumbling something in a different language and Stiles is idly flipping through TV channels, trying to ignore the itching in his veins. He’s blearily watching the third episode of some cooking show with Rachel Ray when his phone begins to vibrate the Star Wars theme from inside his pocket. He fumbles it out quickly and Raj groans, curling up on his side.

 “God, make it _stop_.”

They’d promised not to get high on this trip and they’re both feeling pretty shitty right now, Raj turning to alcohol and Stiles turning to crap TV. Thing about addicts- they always have to depend on something.

He barricades himself in the bathroom for the call but he already knows it’s Scott before he answers or looks down at the caller ID. They do this sometimes- call each other after a few months of not speaking. Stiles calls Scott when he’s low and depressed and Scott calls Stiles when he’s drunk. He suspects it also might have to do with him worrying he might not pick up this time.

He accepts the call and cradles the phone next to his ear, listening to Scott wheeze across the line for a few breaths before he speaks, “Hello?”

There’s an almost relieved exhale, “Hey, uh. Hey, Stiles. It’s Scott.”

“Yeah, man, I know.” He huffs out a shaky laugh, hoisting himself up to sit on the bathroom counter, “You’re saved in my contacts and stuff. Um, how are you doing? S’been awhile.”

“Six months.” Scott informs him, sounding remarkably more sober than he had before. “I’m alright, I...you know, good.”

“That’s good.”

“-Still with Kira. I might ask her to marry me, but I don’t know. I haven’t asked her yet.” He can almost see Scott furrowing his eyebrows, “I want to. She’s…” He trails off, the conversation fizzling out for a few moments.

“I’m happy for you, man. Really. You’ll be a great husband.” Though he isn’t exactly happy for him. He’d never met Kira, save for in passing the last time he was home. She had a nice smile and her hair done up in two braids and looked remarkably confused when Scott told her to go back in the house. Stiles wants to tell Scott that he’s too young to know what he wants because he always jumps into things before he’s ready, that he should be 100% sure before he pops the question; but it’s not his place anymore. “I mean it.”

There’s a smile in Scott’s voice, “Thanks, bro. So what about you, what’s new in your...with you? Still seeing _Raj_?” He says the name distastefully, which is an accomplishment for someone as nice as Scott.

“Yeah, yes. He’s in the other room. Actually, we’re,” He debates whether to tell him where he is before he remembers it’s _Scott_. “We’re at a hotel in San Francisco. Anniversary vacation.” He doesn’t think about the duffel bag full of money stuffed under the bed.

“Woah, that long, huh? So are you guys...getting serious?”

Stiles thinks about Raj and finally moving into his apartment all those months ago. They’d ate frozen pizza and microwavable macaroni off a cardboard moving box, then traded sloppy blowjobs on a blanket in the living room. Stiles had whispered, “I love fucking you.” and Raj responded “I fucking love you.”

He scritches at the back of his neck, remembering staring at him in surprise for a few moments before tackling him and saying it back, again, and again, _and again_. “I guess we are.” He can hear Raj’s phone buzz in the other room--along with muffled cursing--and he smiles.

“Okay, well,” Scott throws back a shot of something through the receiver, probably Dos Manos because he’s a cheap fucker, “I would say I’m happy for you too, but y’know how I feel about that bastard.”

“I know.” He says quietly. Back before he knew who Scott was to Stiles, Raj thought he was cheating on him and took a trip to Beacon Hills to ‘confront the problem’. The combination of the scar that never fully healed on Scott's chin and the illegal background check Scott did on Raj made him hate the guy with a burning passion. Stiles doesn’t really blame him for it.  Though Raj would never lay a hand on him, he’d seen what he can do to other people. “I’m still sorry about that.”

“Dude, don’t. So not your fault. Really.” there’s an uncomfortable pause and Stiles knows what he’s going to say before he says it. “So, are you still...uh…” He asks it every time. It’s probably the sole purpose of the phone call but Stiles can’t find it in himself to care. At least he gets to hear Scott’s voice every once in awhile. His dad stopped calling ages ago.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, “Yeah, I’m still using, Scott.” He should probably lie to him and tell him he’s never touching that shit again. That’s what he used to do back in high school, even some of the years after. Every time was the last time back then. But he’s twenty two now and sick of lying to himself. “You know that.”

“Still doing _meth_?” He spits and Stiles has the good grace to flinch.

He dances his finger around the ‘end call’ button, “Look if you just called to-”

“Sorry, sorry, _I’m sorry_. Please don’t hang up again.” He pleads, slurring,  “I just fucking miss you, man. Like, really, really, miss you. And your dad misses you too-”

“- _Scott_.”

“A-and I _know_ you don’t like talking about it, I know, but it’s just. We can get you _help_ if you’d come home and-” He’s gasping shallowly. “I swear, it could be a lot better. We love you, all of us do. I mean, god, even _Lydia_ won’t stop asking about you-” there’s a hysteric choking sound.

He sighs, “Scott, _Scott_. Jesus, get your inhaler.”

“Fuck you, I don’t _need_ my inhaler I just need you to come _back_.” Scott pauses and there’s the familiar sound of him puffing on his inhaler. He almost wants to laugh. “I’ve been looking at hospitals and rehab centers, no one will judge you for it I swear-”

“Scott. Seriously, stop. I’m not coming back and I’m not going to a fucking hospital. Alright? You were the one that told me to leave last time. Don’t pull this shit because you feel bad.” He fiddles with the travel shampoo bottles by the sink, fingers shaking. “I’ve got it under control.”

He can hear Scott’s aggressive breathing from the other end, having nothing left to say, and he cranes his neck to the side to stare at his reflection in the mirror. The familiar sharp cheekbones, permanent bruises under his eyes. Scabs have started to climb their way along the sides of his face, peppered in between his moles, and he looks unremarkably hollow.  His hair is a few days unwashed and longer than its ever been, hanging down low over his ears. He wonders if Scott would even recognize him.

“I’m going to hang up now, okay? Get some sleep or drink some water or something. Tell Kira I said ‘hi’.”

A scoff, “I’m not going to tell her you said anything.” He says testily, “She hates your fucking guts.”

“Yeah? Rightly so.” He hops down off the counter, his barefeet flexing and swaying slightly against the tile. When was the last time he ate something, anyway? “I love you. Sorry for ruining your life or whatever.” He says sarcastically. There’s a click and then a dial tone.

Raj is propped up against the headboard and furiously texting on his phone when Stiles waltzes out of the bathroom, still fuming a bit from the conversation. He asks without looking up, “Scott McCall?”

“Yeah, it was Scott. Getting married apparently.” He slams the door to the bathroom and stomps across the hotel suite.

Raj quirks his mouth up at one corner, “I’m guessing he didn’t ask you to be best man.”

He knows he’s trying to be funny, but it kind of stings a bit anyway. If things turned out different he’d probably be _there_ when Scott asked her--not just beside him at the alter. Him and Kira would’ve probably gotten along, or so he guesses by the rare stories Scott tells him about her, and maybe they’d even become good friends. Maybe he’d genuinely smile when she walked down the aisle towards his best friend in the whole world. _Maybe_.

“Not exactly.”  He rifles through his suitcase, finding a packet of ramen noodles underneath a ratty sweatshirt. He tears it open with gusto and begins to eat them dry. “Too much of a time commitment anyway, I’m a busy man. Oh and he told me to tell you _hello and fuck you_.” He chews loudly, shaking some of the beef powder into his mouth.

Raj grimaces at him, “You’re repulsive.”

“You love me.”

“Alas.” He laments, throwing him a wink and a cocky grin. Though the smile slips away almost instantly when he motions beside him towards the bed. “Come here, I have news. Not the good kind.”

Stiles frowns and clambers up next to him in a spray of maruchan noodles. “What’s up?”

“China Tom and Sandra are dead.” Raj informs, flicking a stray noodle out of his fringe absently, “Shot full of bullets. We haven’t heard any names yet but Trig suspects it’s a new operation moving up from the south.”

“Fuck.” Tom had been his friend a few years back, giving him a place to stay when his dad kicked him out. His blood suddenly turns cold, “Aren’t they-”

“Working for Trigiani? Yeah.”

“But that means-”

“That we’re targets as well now? Yeah.”

“ _Dude_ ,” He huffs impatiently, twisting the skin by his wrist, “You know how much I hate when you-”

“-Don’t let you finish a sentence? Got it.” Raj laughs. One thing Stiles admires about Raj is his ability to keep his cool in these types of situations, but at the moment it’s almost annoying. He blinks at him incredulously.

“You do know everyone knows we’re in San Francisco, right? It’s not a big secret! Trig probably posted it on his facebook for crying out loud! He’s not exactly _discreet_.” Stiles could really go for something right now. Hell, he’d even settle for a _joint_.

Raj nods, standing up shamelessly naked and crossing over to their suitcases. “Yes, which is why I have a _plan_.”

“Oh, sweet christ, thank god.” Stiles falls back against the pillows, stretching his toes out into the leftover warmth radiating from the other side of the bed. He takes a gratifying swig out of Raj’s wine glass, not surprised in the slightest to find that it’s straight vodka.

“Didn't take you as the praying type.” It takes him a few minutes before he realizes Raj is only packing his suitcase.

“Wait, what is your plan anyway? Are we splitting up?” He scrambles off the bed, digging the duffel out from underneath it and clutching it to his chest. Raj might leave him but he most definitely wouldn’t leave the money. “We are _not_ splitting up.”

Raj gives him a dramatic pout, shoving one of his extra credit cards into Stiles’ suitcase, “I ain’t quitting you.”

“Fuck you, answer me seriously! What is the plan?”

“You’re going home.” Raj says shortly, the flare lost from his voice.

His mouth gapes open like a fish, “Like _hell_ -”

“Listen, I’m the expert on these situations, correct? I’m the one that they’re actually after. They don’t care about you. You’re just an obstacle in their way.”

Stiles flails his arms out behind him, duffel bag tumbling heavily to the floor, “Wow, gee, thanks babe. An _obstacle_. Fan-fucking-tastic.”

Raj is turned back towards the suitcases but Stiles can tell he’s rolling his eyes, “Don’t roll your eyes at me! This isn’t a favorable situation at _all._ ”

“It’s the only safe option-”

“I can go back to the apartment!” He interjects shrilly, “Or y’know, a hotel room somewhere else. Hell, I’ll go to freakin’ Tijuana--anywhere but there. Scott’s going to stick me in a hospital and-”

Raj crouches down next to him, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Stiles, that’s the _point_.”

He makes a broken off _what_ noise and Raj kisses his forehead, smoothing his hands through his hair. “It’s the only way I’ll get any sleep, alright? Knowing you’re safe. There’s this program at a rehabilitation center called Summer Valley an hour or so out from Beacon Hills. They have everyone who enters into the program on lockdown and you being there is kept extremely private.”

“But I thought you said they didn’t want me?” He says in a small voice.

“You’re right, they probably don’t,” He soothes, “But I’m not willing to take that chance. It’ll just be for awhile and after this blows over I’ll come get you personally. Everything will be fine.”

“But-!”

“Stiles, it’s between giving up smack for a few weeks and death.”

He really wishes he didn’t have to be so fucking morbid all the time. Still. Gets the message across. “Okay, _okay_ , yeah. You’re right. I’ll...do it I guess.”

They fall into a peaceful silence.

He wraps a loose hand around Raj’s thigh, tracing one of the tattoos there. It’s some winding religious saying in Sanskrit that he’d forgotten the meaning of. “What does it mean again?”

Raj stills his hand, lacing their fingers together and grinning toothily. “It says _God is my judge_.”

He snorts, “Good luck with that one, buddy.”

“Hey, I’ve still got plenty of time. I can get cleaned up, rock a 9 to 5, dedicate my life to the straight and narrow.”

“Narrow, yeah,” Stiles muses, circling his fingertips around the head of Raj’s dick, “Straight, not so much.”

“Oh, you’re so fucking _funny_ , Stiles.” Raj says scathingly, but relaxes into the touch. Leaning his head down against his shoulder. “I’m going to miss you even though you’re a shit most of the time.”

“Hmmm right back at ya.” He tightens his grip on him and Raj makes a choked noise, “Why can’t you come with me?”

“I’m working on it.”

“ _Not what I mean_.” Stiles stops his hand and Raj grumbles under his breath. “Why can’t you come to Beacon Hills with me? Get in the program together. It could be romantic, violently puking our guts out next to each other. You said it’d be safe there.”

“Ah, for you yeah.” He says distractedly, “Not for me. I know you like to think I have a _squeaky clean_ record but if a government facility gets ahold of me...well, I think I’d rather face a wrathful cartel.” He pats the juncture of Stiles’ wrist. “You gonna finish what you started?”

“So, is this kind of like our last-night-on-earth sex?” He jokes, yelping a bit when Raj digs his fingers into his shoulder _hard_. He brings his palm up to his mouth and spits on it, licking between his fingers like a pornstar. Raj watches him sort of disgusted-- if not disgruntledly turned on. “I’ve heard that’s supposed to be good.”

“Mm, yeah. The best.” Stiles starts to move his hand back to where it was before, but thinks better of it. Using it to clap him on the shoulder and drag them both into standing positions. “Ugh, gross!” Raj wipes at his shoulder. Which is rich considering they had their tongues in each other's mouths a few hours ago.

Stiles ignores that and tilts him back on the bed, stripping off his t-shirt and bracketing Raj’s thighs with his own.

“In that case, we better make it worth it.”


	2. Chapter 2

Raj gets dressed precisely, in the same way each time. First he puts on his boxers, then his gold toe dress socks, undershirt, dress pants, Tanino Crisci shoes (The _Lilian_ brand and he only knows that because Raj tried persuading him to get a pair for like, a month), a narrow button down shirt, tie, suit jacket, leather belt, and a single silver earring. Stiles keeps hoping that one day he’ll switch it up and put his tie on last or something, but to no avail. And he only wears black. Once, he put on a hot pink tie for his birthday but that was only because Stiles _begged_. The hilarity of it was worth the smoldering glare.

He watches him get dressed this last time with a slightly heavy heart, not even berating him when he spends two hours twisting each tendril of dark wavy hair in a separate direction. He feels disconnected in the worst way and he’s gone too long without using.

“Can we shoot before I leave?” He asks in a wavering voice.

Raj smiles at him in the mirror, fingertips still slick with pomade, “You sure? It’ll fuck you up more when you enter the program tomorrow.” He curses at the same piece of hair that never quite lays right.

“I haven’t had anything since yesterday.” He knows he sounds pathetic but it’s the longest he’d gone without in months. “And I’m fucking _sad_.”

“Everything’s in the duffel.”

“Wow, you really sounded like a legit drug dealer there.” Stiles rifles through the cliche, pushing all of the stacks of cash over to the side. He’s not 100% sure where Raj got it, he never asks, and finds he doesn’t really want to know. It’s better to be in the dark. The familiar little make-up bag is tucked away at the bottom. Stiles and this make-up bag have become good friends over the years. “Aha!”

“I’m legit.” Raj murmurs to himself and then, louder, “Don’t make a mess.”

He spills the contents out on the carpet, ignoring all the pill bottles Raj favors. He might be many things but at least he’s not a _pill-popper_. He snivels his nose in disgust and reaches for the spoons, briefly debating between heroin or the ziploc of glass they’d crushed into dust a few days ago. He decides to go with both. “Do you want some?”

“Not right now.” He pauses, “You shouldn’t be speedballing.”

“Mmm, I’ll just do a little.” He mixes both of the powders with saline and swirls them around the spoon, stirring lightly with the syringe plunger and flexing his fingers to get the blood circulating. “Don’t worry.” He whispers to the solution lovingly, “We won’t be apart for too long.” Raj snorts from somewhere in the hotel suite.

“Don’t do your right arm, your veins are turning to shit.” Stiles’ grudgingly unlaces the tourniquet from his right arm and moves it to his left.

“Thanks, mom.” Which, _ouch_ , is definitely not something he wants to dredge up right now.

Raj is suddenly standing above him, tapping his italian leather nightmares and holding Stiles’ suitcase. “Move it along, the cab’s waiting for you downstairs.”

“If you get to spend a century on your hair then I get to take ten minutes doing this, thank you very much.” He warms his arms up until he finds an adequate vein and fills the syringe against the spoon slowly, making sure not to get any air in it. He positions it easily enough but has to take a few deep breaths to still the tremors in his fingers, the needle shaking horribly. Fuck, he shouldn’t have waited this long. Raj gently removes the syringe from his hands and positions it himself.

“Don’t hurt yourself.” He teases, though there isn’t much humor in it. “I’ll do it for you.”

Raj guides it into his vein but hesitates before pushing the handle down, instead leaning into Stiles and kissing him lightly on the mouth. “Just once, when you’re sober.” He grins at Stiles’ ornery expression, “I love you, okay?”

“You’re ridiculo- _ahhh_.” Raj pumps the needle once, halfway down. “If you like me so much when I’m sober you are going to be elated when you pick me up from that fucking hospital, _shit_.” He injects the rest into Stiles’ veins then removes the needle, wiping it off with the edge of the duvet and putting it in their ‘used’ container.

“I think I’ll be elated because we’ll be safe.” He pulls Stiles to his feet and ushers him towards the door, “Or maybe incredibly relaxed from my vacation away from you.”

“ _Please_.” Stiles’ head is buzzing but he feels a thousand times better than he did before- something only slamming can do for him now. They step in the elevator and the startling downward motion of it makes him feel like a cloud.  

“Make sure you wander around for a few hours before you get on the bus. There’s a ticket waiting for you at the station under the name on your fake ID. So, nice to meet you _Rhys_.”

“Right.” He says dreamily. “Rhys. Got it.”

“Get off the bus a town away and catch another cab. It might seem paranoid but I want to be sure you aren’t followed.” He props a pair of Ray Bans on Stiles’ face and drags him through the lobby quickly, practically chucking his suitcase at the driver on duty. There’s a hand moving around in Stiles’ pocket and he giggles, “Getting high before this wasn’t the best idea. _Okay_. Text me on that phone when you get to Beacon Hills and I’ll call you at the hospital in a few days to make sure you’re there.”

He manhandles Stiles into the back seat and leans over to hand the cab driver a crumpled hundred dollar bill. “Be safe. Don’t forget to _text me_.”

“So clingy.” Stiles remarks and presses his face into Raj’s chest. He smells like cinnamon.

Raj kisses him on the forehead once, then deeply on the lips. “You’re such an asshole. If you have any trouble-”

“Yeah, yeah. Love you too.”

Raj nods, clasps their hands firmly together, and disappears back into the hotel lobby.

 

* * *

 

 

To: Raj

From: Unknown number

_in beacon hills_

 

 

After a wasted day full of bus rides and cab fares, he finds himself crashing at the infamous Margeries Diner in Beacon Hills. Which is conveniently located a couple streets away from where Scott is living now.

Stiles ignores the waitresses attempts to get him to buy a cheeseburger (because he’s practically _skin and bones_ ) and only orders a cup of black coffee to settle his stomach. The whole place smells like grease and french fries so coming here probably wasn’t best but he’s trying to put off seeing his former-bestfriend for as long as possible. He doesn’t even know what he’d say yet. Especially since the last time he was in town they didn’t part on good terms. Actually, they ended with Scott shouting at him to fuck off and die in LA and never come back.

He gave that suggestion an admirable attempt, but he digresses.

“You still good with coffee?” The waitress calls over to him for the sixth time and he all but growls at her.

“Yes, thank you. Like I told you three seconds ago.” He bites back. Coming down from a meth speedball is the worst and he fucking hates it. Her fake-customer service smile falls and he feels like a dick, “Sorry, sorry. I’m not having the best day today.” She huffs something rude under her breath and waltzes off. Thankfully leaving him in blessed silence.

Then, wonder of all wonders, his dad walks into the diner with a team of police officers from the station and he nearly falls out of his seat. _Incredible_.

“Hey, Marge!” The Sheriff greets the old woman who owns the restaurant- and works as an unneeded hostess because it’s typically a seat yourself type of place- with a big smile on his face. He and his dad had come here a lot when he was a kid. Stiles stopped going when he realized the food didn’t taste all that great, but his dad came back religiously. Almost every Sunday but today was- oh.

He should have thought this through. Finding himself disturbingly thankful for the Ray Bans hanging off his nose and Raj’s leather jacket he wrangled on when it got cold on the bus. Both being things Stiles would never wear willingly. He flips the collar down to show off his immensely greasy long hair. _Incognito_. It doesn’t make his heart stop pounding though.

His first thought is that he’d forgotten the last time he’d actually seen his dad smile like that.

Getting the fuck out of the restaurant is his second.

 _Come on, Stiles. Quietly as possible. That’s it, now_ -

His legs cramp up in pain when he tries to inconspicuously maneuver himself out of the narrow booth seat and he seizes up against the table, the lone coffee mug tilting over to meet it’s untimely demise against the tiled floor. He falls as well, his left foot managing to twist itself around the table leg, and there’s a loud clatter that causes the majority of the customers to look over. Judging by the way his waitress’s shoulders are moving up and down she has absolutely no pity for him.

One of the deputies stands up and rushes over, everyone else in the place avoiding eye contact and going back to their respectable meals. He feels slightly put off before he remembers how rough he looks. He reaches up and thumbs over a recent scab. God, he feels like shit. The tumble on the floor making him acutely aware of how his whole body seems to ache lately.

“Easy, now.” the guy says, helping lift him into a standing position. He talks to him like he’s a wounded animal.

“I’m _fine_.” He snaps, dusting off his jeans. Which is a lie considering he’s probably a few moments away from vomiting or something. The guy holds his hands up in the universal ‘I come in peace’ sort of way.

“Just trying to help.” He gives Stiles a searching look. His eyes are very green. “Long night?”

“ _Shut the fuck up_. I mean, uh, yeah. Thanks for the help. I guess.” Stiles shoves his way past the guy, which is pretty hard considering he’s built like a brick shithouse. He looks back over at his dad’s table to find they’d gone back to their original conversations, the Sheriff smirking at something Deputy Parrish is recounting to him. Stiles is both relieved and hurt that his dad hadn’t recognized him. His whole body is trembling.

The last time he and his father had been at Margeries (he’d be sixteen? fifteen?) they’d taken the far booth in the corner- the one with the ripped plastic seat. He liked sitting in the broken seat because there was always something weird hidden in between the cushions. A scrap of some depressing poem, a teenage mutant ninja turtle sticker sheet, a sacagawea coin. He doesn’t remember what him and his dad talked about that last time but it must’ve been something simple. Maybe about the new way Lydia was parting her hair or about the mountain lion disturbance in the area.

“B-vitamins and a hot bath.” The deputy next to him says randomly and Stiles gives him a withering look.

“What?”

The guy motions towards his jittering hands, “They help with a come down.”

He fish-mouths at him before stuttering out, “I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But the guy is already waltzing back to his respectable table without a second glance. _Okay then_. Stiles blinks after him a few times, wondering if he’s going to try getting another officer to come back and see if he’s holding, but he just sits down calmly and starts eating his sandwich. His uniform is new and Stiles can’t make out the last name stitched into the pocket no matter how hard he squints. He knows he’s staring (kind of) but doesn’t realize it’s obvious until the guy locks eyes with him and glowers.

 _Getting out of here, right_. He slaps a few dollars on the yellowing laminate and pulls his suitcase from the seat across from him, rushing out with his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. He’s almost hoping his dad will look up again when the front door rings open, but he seems to be entirely focused on his meal and a sloppy retelling of an FBI mishap. At least his dad looks happy. The endless abuse of having to deal with a son as shitty as he is hadn’t taken it’s toll and Stiles finds himself perversely glad.

When he finally makes it to Scott’s apartment building, perspiring and having heaved up a bit of the coffee into an unsuspecting fern along the way, he frets for thirty minutes before getting up the courage to go inside. Then he frets in the hallway for fifteen minutes before he can press his ear against unit 607 to see if anyones home. There’s soft r&b music floating out from somewhere and he thinks he hears the buzz of a television. _Shit_.

Then he frets and stays crouched like that for awhile longer before quickly pushing the doorbell so he can’t chicken out. There’s quick footsteps from the other side and _shit, shit, shit, shit_ -

An old man in a turban answers. A dot of ketchup caught in his greying mustache. Definitely not Scott.

He sizes Stiles up with watery brown eyes then states flatly, “I don’t want to buy anything.”

Stiles cranes his neck, distractedly trying to peer around him to see if Scott is somehow hiding in the apartment with a middle aged man. “I’m, I’m not _selling_ anything. Actually. Uh, I was wondering if someone named Scott McCall lives here, I thought this was the room number, but I mean. It’s probably not. So. Yeah, hey do you know where I might find Scott? McCall? or I guess he could be living with his girlfriend-maybe-fiance Kira,  I could swear he was in this building though-”

“Across the hall.” The man says shortly and swiftly shuts the door in his face.

“Right.” Stiles blows out a deep breath from between his teeth and spins around just in time to see a door creaking open. First, only an almond-shaped eye peers around the wooden frame, along with a sheet of black hair. Then, it swings open entirely and Scott’s mysterious girlfriend is studying him with mild confusion. She smiles politely, no doubt taking in his ruffled exterior and bloodshot eyes. The battered travel luggage sitting at his feet.

“Who are you exactly?” She looks a lot more grown up then she did two years ago. Her hair cut short and a deep red lipstick on her lips. She’s dressed as if she’s about to go on a date.

“Uhhh…” He blanks, scuffling his feet against the tacky hallway carpet. “You guys aren’t going out anywhere are you...I mean, I don’t want to intrude.”

“I got home from work not too long ago. Can I ask you who you are again?” She repeats with a little more force. Flitting over his state of dress and the way he’s sagging on his feet. “Or if need medical attention? You seriously don’t look good.”

Stiles scratches the inside of his arm and watches Kira’s eyes follow the movement, “I’m uh-”

“Stiles Stilinski?” She asks quizzically, eyes widening and then narrowing a split second later. “You need to leave.”

“W-What?” He lets out a hysterical noise, “Scott _asked_ me to come here. Last night!”

She shushes him, stepping out barefoot into the hallway and yanking the door closed behind her. Her toenails are painted bright orange. “Yes, because for some reason he still thinks you’re the same sixteen year old kid he was friends with. I know you’re not.” She spits venomously.

“No offense, Kira, but I’ve known Scott a whole lot longer than-”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done to him? Or have any accountability for your actions at all?” She snowballs, jabbing her finger towards his chest every other word. Scott definitely wasn’t joking when he said she hated his guts. “The lying and the stealing alone would have been too much for anyone to handle but combined with what happened with _Allison_ -” She stops herself and winces, “Damn, sorry, I didn’t mean-”

There’s a voice from inside the apartment: A very familiar voice. “Okay, so Love Actually is coming up on HBO and--Kira? Someone at the door?”

Kira jumps a bit, giving Stiles a desperate glance, “Uh-”

“Scott! Buddy, it’s me.” He pushes his way behind Scott’s fiance- girlfriend- thing and leans up against the door, “Stiles.”

There’s a long pause. The voice that answers him from the other side sounds incredibly small. “Why?”

“Um, I’m here because of what we talked about. Last night. Kicking drugs. Or, er, technically this morning cause it was like, _3 am_ -” The door swings out from underneath him and he lurches forward, almost stumbling into Scott’s outstretched arms.

Scott hugs him tightly, burying his nose into his shoulder and _squeezing_ , which is actually kind of uncomfortable because he seemed to have magically grown biceps at some point during the last two years. Or maybe Stiles had just gotten more frail. Scott sympathises this by leaning back and saying, “Dude, you look terrible. You’re like, _super_ skinny.”

Stiles twists his mouth up, “Eh, been trying this new diet. I read about it in Cosmo.” Raj would’ve probably laughed at that but Scott just looks sad.

“Come on, come inside, you’re-” He stops himself, suddenly insecure. Kira puts a hand on his lower back--one of those subconscious lover-touches that all couples seem to have. Scott leans back into her and Stiles can’t help but think they’re good together. Even if Kira might be slightly insane. “You’re serious, right? About getting your life together?”

He picks up his suitcase slowly, his left hand only spasming a little when he bends it around the handle. “Yeah, well, I don’t want to die right?” Which isn’t exactly a lie.

Scott beams at him, “I have some leftover tamales if you’re hungry. Mom was over earlier. They don’t taste that great--I mean you remember her cooking right? Heh.” It’s a nice place. A two-bedroom complex that they share with another college kid named Malia. He recognizes one of Melissa’s old couches in the living room and the ratty wolf blanket Scott drags everywhere is draped across a chair. There’s a lot of colorful, bohemian touches he suspects are Kira’s and overall the space looks lived in and comfortable. A stark comparison to him and Raj’s flat which consists mainly of white walls and squeaky leather couches. They aren’t home much anyway.

“I like it.” Stiles comments, mostly to himself. Scott is too busy fiddling with the microwave in their tiny kitchen and Kira looks frazzled, compulsively petting down her hair. She catches his eye and motions over towards the far end of the room.

“Look, I’m sorry about what I said earlier.” She admits in a low voice, “I was just- surprised.”

“It’s okay. No harm done.” He’s actually grudgingly proud that Scott found someone like Kira to stand up for him like that. God knows Scott needs it.

As if reading his mind: “Scott lets people walk all over him sometimes. He’s always trying to search for the best in people- it’s one of the qualities I love most about him actually- but he gets let down often.”

“You think he’s doing that with me?”

She doesn’t bother giving that an answer, “All I’m saying is that I hope you’re serious about sobriety. It nearly killed him last time and I don’t want to see that happen again.” She groans, “God, sorry, it’s like I’m giving you the big brother talk. Telling you what’s going to happen if you break his heart. Sorry. I’m just-”

“Protecting him, yeah, I get it.” He says distractedly, something hot and sharp and a lot like _shame_ climbing up the back of his throat. He’s surprised he can still feel that emotion. Or, no, wait. Not shame. Definitely not shame. Damn. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“Second door to the-”

He makes it just in time, arms locked around the bowl as he heaves the contents of his stomach out. It’s mostly watery bile this time- no blood- and drool drips on to the seat when he pulls back to wipe his mouth. Vomiting isn’t as uncommon as he’d like it to be but it still hurts like an absolute _bitch_. He’s about to stand up when his insides twist even harder and he’s retching again. By the time he’s finished there are tears in his eyes and his throat feels broken. In his peripherals he can see Scott twitching in the doorway, moving a hand out to comfort him then quickly yanking it back to his side.

“Um.” Scott says quietly. “Do you like want some mouthwash or-”

He shakes his head, burying his face into his hands, “Just get out. I’ll be two minutes.”

“How long has this been happening?” He cannot deal with Scott sounding so fucking worried right now.

Stiles’ head is pounding and he has a bruise on his side from falling out of the chair at the diner and he smells like shit and he’s unfathomably _done_ with this idiotic plan to “keep him safe”. He misses heroin and seeing his dad fucked him up so much that he can hardly _think_. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t-” Scott starts, “Are you okay? We can go now if you want, if you feel like you’re, y’know...I did research about withdrawal-”

“I’m fine!” He snaps, “Just get the fuck away.”

Scott moves backwards like he’s going to leave but then decides against it, stepping further into the bathroom and closing the door lightly. He takes a seat on the edge of the bathtub and pulls Stiles disgusting hair back into a sloppy ponytail, tying it off with one of Kira’s hair ribbons.

“I want you to be okay is all.” He says uselessly but gets cut off by Stiles dry heaving again. Scott sort of rests his hand somewhere on his upper back, cautiously, like he’s afraid it weighs too much.

After awhile he can hear the opening of Love Actually playing in the living room, but besides that, it’s just him and Scott breathing. He leans back against Scott’s knees. Apparently the right one now has a jagged scar from surgery because he messed it up with Lacrosse sophomore year of college. He only knows that because of Facebook.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be okay.” He admits, “Not like you want me to.”

“I’m not an idiot, Stiles.” Stiles snorts, “Stop it, I’m being serious. I’m not. I know that it’ll never be the same. You aren’t-” He sighs, frustrated, “We aren't teenagers anymore. But I think- I think you can be like that again, right? Like, I think you’ll be okay. You’re a strong guy. You’re my best friend.”

He closes his eyes because Scott is _ridiculous_ and he always will be, “What does being your best friend have to do with anything?”

“It means that I believe in you.” He taps Stiles in between his eyes, “Come hell or high water.”

“Dude, your mom says that _all the time_. You’re turning into your mom.” He’s simultaneously more comfortable than he’s felt in years, lying on the tile of Scott’s bathroom, and the most uncomfortable he’s ever been in his life. Because Scott’s an idiot who believes in him too much and he’s going to break his fucking heart when Raj comes to get him in a few weeks.

_But maybe you could just stop it. Maybe you could quit for real this time._

It’s not like he hasn’t tried before--locking himself away from drugs for a few days in a dingy apartment, the brief stint in the hospital when he was a teenager--but the pull for it was always too strong for him to take on alone. He’d given up after Allison. When he met Raj. Back then it was sort of the only option. Bury himself in ecstasy to avoid focusing on everything he’d lost, which is-

Fuck, he’s too tired to think about this now.

“B-vitamins and a hot bath.” He mumbles and Scott furrows his brows.

“What the hell are you talking about, man?”

“I guess that’s what I need.”

Scott twists one of the knobs on the tub behind him and jostles Stiles so he can stand up. “You want bubbles? Kira has this strawberry smoothie stuff.”

“Is that even a question?” He gets up slower than Scott, leaning heavily on the toilet. Who knew vomiting then talking about feelings could make him so winded.

Scott laughs, pouring a generous amount into the water. The sickly sweet smell of artificial strawberry fills the room. “Your homo is showing.”

“Hey! Don’t stereotype me. Like you haven’t used about half of the bottle on yourself.” Scott grins sheepishly.

“We’ll go to the hospital tomorrow?”  He says. Stiles has a feeling he meant to say it as a statement but it comes out like a question.

“Yeah." Because what choice does he have? "Of course.” Then Scott shuts the door behind him and Stiles is alone again.

 

* * *

 

 

The bubble bath actually helps a lot, dulling the ache in his muscles to something manageable. 

 

When Kira and Scott get into a full-fledged squabble about whether blueberries have b-vitamins in them ("They do! Because blueberries start with a _B_ , Kira, _ay dios mio_ " "Seriously, Scott? You sound exactly like your mother right now"), well, at least he cracks a smile. 

 


End file.
